Sorry
by yesteryouth
Summary: He offered to take you out to dinner at that place you don’t like, but of course you agreed. You’d jump at the chance to go with him if he had made you leap off a bridge first. Onesided!US/UK. Oneshot.


That was someone still very broken inside of you. Tormented, tightly disciplined and intricately wound, but bleeding, because everyone always picks and pulls at the scab. But you never say anything about it.

What is there to say? Stop? As if that would do anything. You're hurt, but you never dare say a word. It's easier to smile and yell obnoxious things at the top of your lungs with hopes that someone will someday show you the love you always give, but was never shown to you. Just hope. You'd never actually say anything.

It's all because you love him that you never try, isn't it? But, you'd never say anything about that, either. It's just a big, pink elephant in the room that everyone sees, but nobody talks about. You're docile, trusting, and affectionate like a happy, loud dog. The thing is, you always act at the wrong time, and that's why he doesn't like you. Sometimes he laughs, or goes along with your act, but he hates you, doesn't he? He loathes you, because you're the bastard that ruined his life. This is why your blind patriotism bothers him so much.

You didn't think he'd cry... he was always so strong.

You didn't think he'd miss you.

You regret it every day. Not the freedom. No, you could never regret the independence that you put your life (and his) on the line for. But it eats you up inside every time you see him looking crestfallen and you know that it's your fault. Everything is your fault, though, so you're used to it.

It's your fault his life is ruined. He reminds you that every time he drinks, just in case you try to forget and put the past behind you and move on with your life. "Bloody Git," He'd slur, and then he'd go on and on about how you've taken every little bit of his heart and crushed it into a fine dust. But, did you do it on purpose?

No. No, you would never hurt your beloved England on purpose... You have too much respect for him to do that. Well, you did, before you saw him cry. Now you just don't know. It seems like it would be impossible to pursue any sort of relationship with Arthur. You hinted at it, but every time, he has rejected you. Being subtle is very difficult for you; he must have misunderstood.

What were you expecting? Were you expecting to marry him some day? He's not interested in you – maybe not in men at all. But you've seen how he acts with France. He looks disgusted, but he goes with it, sort of like how he goes with you when you're loud and intolerable, and totally piss him off. It's like he's two timing you, without dating anyone at all.

You thought tonight might be different. He offered to take you out to dinner at that place you don't like, but of course you agreed. You'd jump at the chance to go with him if he had made you leap off a bridge first. But he didn't ask you to do that, so you're in luck.

It wasn't so lucky that he had you waiting for nearly an hour in the corner of the pub, saying he'd 'be right back in five'. When he came back, your face lit up, but the smile almost melts right off your face once you realize he's too hammered to even stand up straight. He slinks down at the table, snorts, and gulps. You sit in that awkward silence, interrupted frequently by the slurping and panting of England for another ten minutes before he finally speaks up.

"America."

You wince, just because you know what's coming. You should have known this would happen – you can never do anything nice with this man without him chewing you out. You should have ordered something to eat; they have hamburgers here! You're an idiot. You know he'll remind you that in a moment, but it's a good thing you already have your story straight.

A movement from England's side of the table draws your eyes, and you forget what you were thinking about. He's resting his head on the table, and glaring – glaring at you. His lips are pursed and attached to the glass; he scowls against it, sucking the drink down like a vacuum.

You know anything you say will either be disregarded or be torn apart, analyzed, and somehow related back to the revolution. Back to how 'cute' and 'innocent' you used to be. You're not made of stone; it hurts when he yells. And it hurts even more to know how much he hates you.

The sound of Arthur's glass clinking on the table draws your attention. Why do you keep getting distracted, anyway? He's still glaring, of course. "Why?" His voice comes out hoarse and rough. Before you can ask, he continues, "Why'd you go?" He runs his fingers through his messy hair, and pulls. It makes you cringe. You want to leave. You want to run. You want to beanywhere but here with him_._

He's whining now. Ranting, complaining. All you do is nod and apologize profusely. This was supposed to be special. Leave it to Arthur to ruin your date. Well, get together... a non-romantic, completely one-sided outing with no hand holding, laughing, hugging, or kissing. But he's still ruined it.

It's not like you're a homosexual – you just have daddy issues, and Arthur is the closest thing to a father you've ever had. You want nothing more than his approval. For him to love you the way he used to. Maybe that's why you want to be with him so badly.

"England," He doesn't like that you cut him off, but you keep talking. "I... Think I'm going to call it a night." You flash him a weak smile, and his face burns red, probably from rage, or something that you've done to piss him off. You hadn't done anything but sit there and listen, and you've already managed to make him boil with anger. Way to go.

"That's just like you, to leave me now, when I'm in need of your company for once." Arthur sinks down into his chair. People are probably staring. You're embarrassed, and when you look around at other people and their judgemental glances, Arthur slams his palms flat on the table to get your eyes back on him. When you just stare at him, he rests his face in his hand. Neither of you say anything, because neither of you have anything to say. You linger for a moment, until he licks his lips, and mutters "... Don't you have anything to say to me at all?"

You hesitate.

"I love you."

"Go to hell."

He's drinking again.

You leave.


End file.
